


Unprecedented scale

by Wishmaker



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, M/M, don't be fooled by the world wars, fluff basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29958471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishmaker/pseuds/Wishmaker
Summary: Martín felt his temper flaring up. Was it any wonder if he found his loyalties being pulled elsewhere? For centuries, he had done his… Not his best, necessarily, but he had done what had to be done. Sometimes humanity needed a couple of casualties to evolve, to recoup and rebuild. What was a charred city in comparison to the opportunity to begin anew?In which Martín burns down London and starts two world wars, and it's not for Andrés, but it is.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Unprecedented scale

”London is in flames,” Andrés offered him in lieu of a greeting.

“Is it?” Martín asked blandly, as if it hadn’t been what everyone had been talking about since the flames started yesterday, busying himself with scanning the newspaper. The newspaper, which had dedicated its front page to the fire.

“Started from a bakery, apparently,” Andrés continued as if he hadn’t spoken, thoughtfully. Martín didn’t chance a look to see the expression on his face.

“Everything’s a fire hazard in that city,” Martín lamented, he had always said this to anybody who would listen, “But…” He licked his lips, cursing himself for being so easy for Andrés to play with, so quick to rise to the challenge, “Maybe it will be for the best.”

“Bold words from an angel,” Andrés said, but unlike everyone else, he made it sound like a compliment, appreciative. From him, it was a compliment.

“Well, they have been unable to quell the plague – a work of art, I begrudgingly admit – so maybe this will… help.” He had thought of those words countless times in the last few months. It felt wrong to finally say them out loud.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Andrés replied emphatically, because of course the plague had been his handiwork, personally. Martín had known that when he complimented it, he could always tell. Andrés put more care into his destruction that anyone else ever had. He made it _art_. Not to mention how he had preened to Martín, _have you seen, Martín, all of those people dying, how does heaven like that?_ “I will admit, in turn, that the fire is quite _beautiful_ too.” He said it like he was returning the sentiment, like he somehow knew, but of course he didn’t, no one knew, no one could know, “Haven’t seen one quite so gorgeous since Rome. There’s a beauty to the chaos, the force. We’re drawn to it, humans and demons alike.”

Oh, Martín remembered Rome, remembered the first time he met Andrés, studying the charred remains. Remembered Andrés saying, _came to admire my handiwork?_ and as reluctantly as it may have been, he had been admiring it ever since.

“If you say so,” Martín huffed now, trying to convey the warning tones of _I wouldn’t know, Andrés_ as well as _we’re not discussing this any further_.

“If you happen to learn who started it,” Andrés continued so quietly that Martín had to finally lower the newspaper to watch his lips, “Do send them my way. I’ll reward them _handsomely._ ”

Martín wanted to say that he didn’t have the kinds of connections who would know anything about that, that surely Andrés’ webs would bring him something sooner or later, but his mouth felt dry all of a sudden, so he merely nodded. Andrés accepted it, straightening himself and leaving without looking back. His business in Naples was thus concluded, apparently.

Martín watched him walk away, thought of Pudding Lane, stoking a small flame, tossing a couple of logs into it. He had forced himself to focus on the plague, the horrifying disease that had come and gone for centuries, forced himself to think he was doing what had to be done. He was doing what no one else had the guts to do, the inevitable. A couple of logs was all it took to burn down an entire city.

____________

“Martín, what have you done?” Ágata hissed, and while Martín held a lot of begrudging respect for his fellow angel, her scolding tone of voice made his blood boil.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he lied, not turning to look at her. _Sinning again, Martín_ , he imagined Andrés drawling appreciatively in his ear. Andrés had never said that to him, of course, because that would mean _admitting_ something. He heard it regardless, every time.

Her hands were on her hips and she was like the mother Martín had never wanted, accusing him of breaking her trust, disgracing their family. “Yeah you know, have you even seen your _fucking wings_ lately?”

He sighed at that. Maybe he had noticed, maybe he had awoken one morning and absently observed the ashen quality in some of the feathers – not all of the feathers, _Ágata_ – and maybe he had blamed it on the lighting, the stress, on everything that would keep him from facing the very real possibility that he was, that he had— “It’s none of your business,” he said quietly, trying to insert another lie, _I know what I’m doing_ , into the words.

She scoffed, “I’m the only _angel_ who still bothers with you, so pardon me if I try to make it my business.”

“I’m doing what has to be done,” he told her quietly, tried to bleed conviction into his words. It was hard to do without meeting her eyes.

“You can’t possibly believe that,” Ágata replied venomously. “You’re doing a demon’s bidding. I have seen you _with one._ We all have.”

Martín felt his temper flaring up. Was it any wonder if he found his loyalties being pulled elsewhere? For centuries, he had done his… Not his best, necessarily, but he had done what had to be done. Sometimes humanity needed a couple of casualties to evolve, to recoup and rebuild. What was a charred city in comparison to the opportunity to begin anew? And for Ágata to drag his alliances through the mud like this, he would not tolerate it.

“ _Leave_ ,” he hissed, his wings flaring menacingly.

She sighed, a shuddering breath that seemed resigned but not defeated. “You know we only want the best for you, Martín.”

He scoffed, even though she was no longer there to hear it.

_You only want the best but not the cost that comes with it._

____________

“What do you think of the Qing, Martín?”

Martín looked up at Andrés, who had again materialised in the middle of—where were they? Was this Bombay or Ceylon? Regardless, the sun was scorching and it was hard to look at Andrés without squinting. “The Great Qing? Can’t say I think of them often.” To lie to Àgata was basically second nature at this point, whereas lying to Andrés left a bitter taste in his mouth as he forced the words out. He had thought of nothing but the Qing for months. Andrés had actually taken quite a while to find him this time. “Why?”

Andrés had a strange, haunted look in his eyes. It was ill-fitting, like borrowed clothes or a stolen bride. “There’s a civil war now, I hear. They think it might be the bloodiest one yet.”

Martín grimaced. If Andrés thought it had been that bad, he may have—“That’s awful,” he croaked, hoping that the demon would mistake his emotions for something else, anything else. Not a rising panic, not him thinking he had tainted himself too far for even Andrés, because if he didn’t have that then he would have nothing at all—

“Awful,” Andrés parroted, as if trying out the word, “I suppose you could say that, but…”

“But what?”

“They’re killing each other quite beautifully.”

He sunk his hand into Martín’s hair, and Martín wasn’t sure if he was being reprimanded or rewarded, but he wanted to remain right there, wanted to burn so that he could _stay_ —

“It’s been nice seeing you, Martín.”

____________

“Everyone has been complimenting me, lately,” Andrés started, and _god_ , why was never _why hello Martín, how are you?_ with him?

“Is that something unusual?” Martín was actually in a jovial mood, so he could engage in this flirtation, just this once.

“No,” he admitted with a matching grin, “But apparently some leader or another—” Andrés waved with his hand to show just how inconsequential he found it all, ”—was shot in Sarajevo and now everyone’s on the brink of war and I keep hearing how it has my fingerprints all over it,” he blinked, seeming perplexed. “However, I haven’t been anywhere near it, I’ve been busy pulling strings in Mexico for years, you know that.”

“Huh,” Martín said unintelligently, even though he did know that, of course. No one else had the patience for such a long operation, not when they could get just as much clout by unleashing a serial killer with much less effort.

“And yet I can’t think of anyone else who would pull off something like this so… elegantly.”

Martín tried not to preen at that, privately worried that he wanted to admit to it. It had been so easy, confusing some drivers, offering a young man coffee, watching it all unfold from a safe distance. He found himself understanding what Andrés had said about The Fire, the unharnessed force of it. Human nature was just like that, easily used, abused. And if such small actions could lead to a war with the power to ravage the entire continent, what could be more predestined than that?

“Someone must have taken your lead.”

Andrés scoffed, “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but none of my underlings have the brains or the tenacity. They are weak, where it counts. No one here can see the bigger picture, you know?”

Martín imagined the _except you_ punctuating his every point, and it made him lower his gaze, even though what he really wanted was to stare into Andrés’ dark eyes head-on, bask in the praise and allow himself to believe it. “I suppose. Sometimes I feel the same way—” That wasn’t an admission, right? Was he allowed to criticise his fellow angels, without renouncing his allegiance? Andrés certainly was, but the same rules had never applied to them. “—but I suppose they just see it differently, it doesn’t make them any worse.”

Andrés sighed, seeming a little disappointed at that, and Martín felt Andrés’ displeasure as a prickling in his own neck. “I think it does.” He didn’t dwell on that, though, but rather looked past Martín, deep in thought. “You know, I have been developing this new strain of disease. It seems like now might be a great time to set it free.”

“I’m not sure you should be telling me this,” Martín felt obligated to say.

Andrés laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. He laughed like Martín was in on the joke, like it was _theirs_. “Oh, I don’t think you will betray me, _mi compañero_.”

Martín said nothing to that, because he was right, of course. He had unwittingly given Andrés’ little pet project the perfect breeding ground, and he wasn’t going to implicate both of them by saying a thing.

And – although this was a fact he could only glance at from the corner of his eye, while ensuring he still preserved plausible deniability – he was rather interested in seeing how it would play out.

____________

The War killed people in the millions, the Influenza killed people in the tens of millions. Martín imagined what Andrés would have said to him, if he could have crossed the boundary they were flirting over, the boundary between knowing and admitting to know. Would he have said _Martín, you have done beautifully, better than anyone else, Martín, look at all this destruction, Martín, look at what we made together, Martín_?

Sometimes, when Ágata thought he was wasn’t looking, she would have something in her eyes, something that wasn’t quite anger and wasn’t quite pity and Martín didn’t want to unpack all of it, but he recognised that look without even wanting to. She knew how this was all going to end, that this was a play and the ending had been written long ago. She was making her peace with it.

Martín had read the play, too. Perhaps he had even seen it performed, once before, back when he had not yet looked at the actors and seen himself in every action. And he was going to play his role, until the last act. He was going to do it with _grace_ until he had none left.

____________

People called it _the war to end war_ , and if Martín could have told anyone, he would have said _see, this is what I have been trying to say, all this time_ , even though it was no longer the whole truth.

____________

His feathers were falling off, _what the fuck_.

He could acknowledge, somewhat distantly, that it had been a long process, perhaps over some centuries, but now it was escalating, now he couldn’t turn a corner without a grey, sickly feather floating past him. He should do some good deeds to try and offset the damage, yet he wasn’t sure if he had already crossed some boundary from where there was no return. Besides, he didn’t _want_ to do good deeds, he had been doing them all this time but his work was never appreciated, never would be.

If Andrés noticed the damage, on a chance encounter in Milan, he didn’t comment on it.

“Did you see what happened in the States?” Andrés asked him casually, and wasn’t it refreshing to talk about a tragedy Martín didn’t have to pretend to not have caused? Andrés looked impeccable, as always, wearing all black and so refined, the perfect picture of sin himself. Martín tried not to shrink under his gaze. He knew that he was starting to look more ill by the day - he didn't need Ágata pointing it out, he knew his grace was waning. He even _felt_ a little ill, his miracles were harder to come by. Every act was a little harder than the one that came before.

“I did,” he admitted, knew that Andrés was fishing for compliments – and yet he was unable to deny him. Andrés could have asked him for anything, and he would have found a way, would have paid the price himself. Andrés could have asked for his very soul, and he would have— “It was your work, wasn’t it?”

“I knew you could tell,” Andrés drawled, placing his hands across Martín’s shoulders. It barely even stung, and Martín leaned into it. He had missed their casual connection, no one else had ever burned him and made Martín crave for more simultaneously.

"It's quite something," he acknowledged lamely, placing one of his hands on Andrés’. He wanted to tell Andrés that he knew nothing about stock markets, that while he normally appreciated man-made machinery, this was a new kind of beast, one that didn't speak to him in the same way. Regardless, Andrés had clearly done a fine job, because a clamour of terror was spreading fast, having already left the continent and extended its clawed fingers almost everywhere. Or maybe Martín just thought it beautiful because the poise of it hummed _Andrés_ with every breath.

Andrés scoffed. He wasn’t pleased with the weak compliments Martín could bring himself to voice, and Martín couldn’t blame him for that. Andrés deserved better. "I just wanted to know if you'd seen it," he murmured, bringing a hand to caress Martín’s cheek. This time it did burn just a little brighter, and Martín imagined Andrés’ touch leaving burns on his skin in its wake.

"I think everyone has, it's a little like the Great Fire of London." He tried to phrase it like he didn't often think of the fire - he did, could still see the inferno when he closed his eyes, mixed with the pleasure that had clouded Andrés' expression when they first spoke of it - but maybe by bringing it into the conversation he had already given himself away. "Hard to miss," he croaked stupidly.

"Quite like yourself," Andrés acknowledged, even though the sentiment clearly applied to only one of them. Martín could swear Andrés was eyeing his wings over his shoulder, assessing them like a thief. But before he could bring it up, Andrés' gaze met his again. "Speaking of, I actually had a reason why I wanted to talk to you," he continued, and _oh?_ Martín hadn't been aware that wanting to talk to him was something the demon was wont to do. Andrés let go of him and circled back around to face him, like a cat circling its owner – or its prey.

“Okay,” Martín responded, and for the first time he wished he were human, so he could blame his lack of eloquence on lack of sleep or stress, rather than what it was – unadulterated panic.

“I wanted to give you this,” Andrés murmured, dropping his voice, smiling conspiratorially. He pressed a small canvas into Martín’s hands without waiting for a response, and Martín blinked a couple of times, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

It was _a painting_.

It was _red_.

It was a _fire_. For the briefest moment he thought – fooled himself into thinking – it may have been Rome, but there were none of the arches, no columns or stones. Rome had been lighter, it had burned brighter. No, this was darker, an inferno of wooden buildings. Martín had burned them himself.

“ _London_ ,” he observed, quietly, fingers digging into the edges of the canvas.

Andrés beamed at that, it was in the way his shoulders relaxed, how he drew himself ever so slightly over Martín’s smaller frame. He didn’t ask if Martín liked it – they both knew. They both knew much more than Martín would have cared for. Andrés had clearly painted it himself, because every stroke betrayed the admiration, the veneration of the only god he had ever cared about. Martín hadn’t even known he painted.

“You were right, about London. The fire made it _better_.”

____________

"Did you see what happened in Italy?"

Martín kept his eyes trained on Andrés' face to keep them from rolling dramatically, because for Heaven it was always a good thing to see a demon fail. "Yes," he admitted, unable to keep himself from adding, "A pathetic effort."

Andrés huffed a laugh at that, sounding like it had been drawn from him without his consent. "Yes. Have you ever seen a more wretched coup?" No, he hadn’t. Why even try if you’re going to do something so _pathetic_?

Watching it had been awful, even if the outcome was good—the whole operation had been so graceless, Martín had spent the entire week thinking, _Andrés would never, Andrés would do so much better, if Andrés were working on this—._ and even though he voiced none of those thoughts, Ágata had radiated loud disapproval at his high treason.

"I have not, but then again, I mostly just watch yours." It was probably more true than Andrés even knew, because Martín had been drawn to him before they even met, drawn to Rome. He had been compelled to go to Rome to witness the power of the catastrophe for himself, and ever since then he had been harbouring that same calamity within his soul.

Andrés liked that, leaning towards him. Some days Martín genuinely believed that Andrés would flirt with him all day if given the chance, non-committal as it was, because the world was cruel. At least Andrés had the decency to display his pleasure for Martín to relish. Small victories in a rotten universe. "Oh, I know. Do you like them?" He was grinning, staring at Martín, already anticipating the answer and basking in the pleasure it would give him.

Martín couldn't well say no, and he found that he didn't want to, either. But he had to phrase it with plausible deniability, to compliment Andrés' ability while keeping his own head above water. And he still remembered how Andrés hadn’t taken his weak flattery too kindly, last time. "You do have a talent for destruction," he replied, "A way of making it seem effortless, yet meticulously planned." He carefully didn't mention how his own good deeds, when he had still been interested in those, had never been at all effortless or graceful. He certainly didn't mention how much more natural it had felt when he finally cracked and tore a page from Andrés' book.

He was surely a broken being, but he didn't need anyone else to find out. It was almost too much to know it himself.

____________

No one needed to tell Martín that he had crossed the line, he knew it without being informed. Burning down an entire city was one thing, starting a civil war was another, and a world war to follow, they had been too busy fixing what he had broken, and now there was this and it seemed to be his final strike, the one where he was no longer going to lose only a few feathers. He was going to lose everything, and he couldn’t do anything but agree, because it was all true.

The proceedings were short and honestly quite boring. Martín was asked to repent and to make up for his crimes _against Heaven and humanity alike_ , and he chose not to, on both counts. They asked him if he knew the implications of that decision, and he glared, defiantly, said _yes_ loudly, and it echoed and ricocheted from the walls of the mostly empty room. He hadn’t come this far to be a coward, _damn_ the consequences.

____________

Martín sat in a dingy bar in Stockholm, because that’s where he had been unceremoniously dumped and at first he hadn’t the means to leave, and then he hadn’t the interest. He hadn’t the interest for anything, because he had lost his only spark for life. He still wasn’t repenting, not exactly – but perhaps he felt some regret. He had gone overboard in his zealous efforts of rebuilding, his grand displays of affection. It had been too much, and he had been thrown off heaven, hastily. He hadn’t even had the pleasure of shocking everyone with his corruption, it had been very under the wraps, probably because it was embarrassing. A fallen angel, a lost soul. Ha.

What he had done had been a terrible choice, but that’s not why he regretted it. No, he regretted it because previously, he’d had the opportunity to at least run into Andrés once or twice a decade, discuss the havoc they had both caused, even if it was carefully veiled in discussions that may well have been about the weather. Andrés was the only thing that had really mattered to him, lately, and now he had lost that. Now that he was human, he felt physical pain and weakness for the first time in his life. He felt the phantom ache in his lost wings, every single night he woke up desperately looking for them. Everything _hurt_ , all the damn time. Now he was aging, and he supposed he wouldn’t even have many decades left. Humans were so fragile.

He was in a dingy bar in Stockholm, drowning his human sorrows in drink the way humans seemed to, not exactly paying attention to his surroundings, when a certain sense of foreboding took over the entire room, like a blanket sown out of despair. He had never felt anything like it before, but he still felt like he knew, had known, like it was familiar somehow…

Then Andrés materialised opposite him, from the shadows, _like always_ , wearing a black coat and smiling, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, Martín,” he said quietly, meaningfully, purposefully, and Martín felt a choked sound attempt to escape his throat. Three years was nothing for an angel, but apparently it was everything to a human.

“Andrés.” He knew how he looked; tired and sad and pained and irreversibly _human_ , all the things he and Andrés had always shared a contempt for. God, he had been such a terrible angel. He had probably always been destined to fall, a broken creation, a fault in the canvas of the universe.

“You were too good for them anyway,” Andrés said in a scoff, and _wasn’t that ironic_? “You have a passion, it’s something the rest of them are lacking. I have been telling you this for _centuries_ , _mi querido_.”

Martín stared at him tiredly. Andrés looked the same as always, and Martín envied that. It wasn’t fair that breaking things suited him so, when Martín had lost _everything_ —

“You should have come to me.”

Martín shrugged. It’s not like he could just manifest in places, anymore. Of course, he could tell where Andrés had been by the breadcrumbs of devastation, but he couldn’t just appear in the midst of war and terror, not anymore. Besides, he was _human_ now. He couldn’t just… do whatever they had, before. Not to mention that regardless of his affections, nothing about their former relationship had convinced him that Andrés would particularly appreciate it if Martín came to him. “I didn’t want to,” he said, mostly truthful. The only thing he had wanted more than to see Andrés again was to _not_ see him again. He hadn’t wanted Andrés to see this pathetic shell of himself he had been reduced to, to see the pity in his eyes and hear him say _oh, Martín_ like he was looking at a broken marionette, strings cut, irreparable.

“So what are you going to do, instead? Live as a fucking _human_?”

“I don’t need a demon’s _charity_ ,” Martín hissed, feeling his face burn at the implications that Andrés would have taken him in like a lost puppy, because there was nowhere else for him to go. No, Martín would much rather live and die as a human than face that. Actually, he could end his human existence any moment now, could he not? Now _that_ was a tempting offer.

Andrés didn’t react in the way Martín had anticipated, had wanted. He had expected an anger to match his, a stoked fire to char him, but instead Andrés met him with cold, calculated cruelty. “Who else has come for you, hmm? I don’t exactly see your _angel friends_ lining up to aid you.”

Martín momentarily thought about throwing his half-empty glass at Andrés’ head, even if he knew the hit wouldn’t land. Instead, he stared at him head-on, allowing his rage to burn on the inside. Andrés was right, of course he was – no one had given Martín the time of day for three years, the people whom he had perhaps considered acquaintances had dropped him as soon as he disgraced himself, the ones that hadn’t already abandoned him before, that is – but Martín would not allow him the satisfaction.

“I would rather die alone than spend another moment with you,” he said, quietly but certainly. He punctuated the words by getting on his feet, a little unsteady but practiced from all the nights he had spent right here. He didn’t look at Andrés again as he violently pulled on his coat and stalked out of the bar, away from him.

Of course, he didn’t get far. He barely made it outside before Andrés was grabbing him by the neck, pressing his body to the nearest wall. It hurt, but it didn’t burn, and a broken laugh escaped Martín’s throat. If this was how he would die, he hoped Andrés would at least enjoy it.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, _Martín_?”

Andrés had never said his name like that, he always made it sound like an endearment, not a curse. Not like everyone else.

Martín said nothing, stared into Andrés’ eyes defiantly. He wanted to tempt him, wanted to say _go on then, you fucker, do it_ , but Andrés would surely do the opposite of what he wanted.

“You must know you never belonged with them,” Andrés continued, and Martín couldn’t find it in himself to feel offended, it was true, he had never belonged, had never found a place, and now he was a human in _fucking Stockholm_ — “You belong with me.”

A pause, a moment for Martín to absorb that, but nothing was getting through to him, he would not allow it, he had to leave and find a gun and end this pathetic—

Andrés either didn’t see, or he didn’t want to see. “I burned Rome, you burned London. The War and the Influenza. Don’t lie to me, you have never seen anything so beautiful. You can appreciate it. No one else can.”

A treacherous shudder passed through Martín’s body, and he fought a losing battle against a frightening wave of something so unfamiliar as of late, _hope_. “What do you want from me?” he asked in a broken voice.

“I want your passion,” Andrés said simply. Martín had seen him order wine with more intent. He waited for an elaboration, an explanation, but apparently this was the one time in Andrés’ existence that he wasn’t about to give a grand speech. Ah, so it was Martín’s turn to speak, to make a _declaration_.

“I don’t think…” Martín cleared his throat, trying to clear his mind while at it, “I don’t think my passion was… directed where they wanted it.” Those words had been swimming in his head for centuries, but saying them out loud, _admitting_ , he still felt like it was too soon. Maybe if he hadn’t fallen, they could have continued this song and dance for all of eternity. But Martín had reached his last act, all he had to do now was take a bow. Why not double down with declarations of his affections, it’s not like he had anything more to lose—

“Well, you must know that I,” Andrés stopped to choose his words with an uncharacteristic care, “That I would have had you.” He stared at Martín, black eyes piercing, and he had to tamp down a very human fear at that. “No one else has had so much blood on their hands in this century. For that, you should be rewarded, not shunned.” He slowly brought a hand to cup Martín’s face, to draw a line down over his Adam’s apple. “We could do great things together.”

____________

The world was quiet. It may well have ceased to exist.

____________

“ _Come with me_ ,” Andrés whispered in his ear, then, and Martín didn’t have to say anything.

He had been ready when he burned down London for this man, centuries ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the record, I don't *actually* endorse starting world wars as a grand display of affection (but we all know Martín would totally do it).
> 
> I've been struggling to write this for a month or so and I'm so relieved to have somewhat completed it. Yay!!! I don't even know if any of it makes sense if you're not me so lemme know if you're wildly confused.
> 
> I wrote a couple thousand words in Andrés' POV too to get a feel of what he was up to (flirting with Martín and arguing with Sergio, mostly) and I have half the mind to do something about that and post it as a sequel / missing scenes and I don't want to hold it hostage or anything but lemme know if you want me to work on it, I've all the headcanons that I couldn't fit into this one because Martín doesn't notice anything but Andrés. Haha.
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading, please let me know you exist etc., I feed off of this ship and praise and nothing else!!
> 
> (Oh yeah this is a bit Good Omens -adjacent but I hope you'll find it derivative enough to have enjoyed it regardless :) have a great week friends!!! <3)


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